The Speed of Sound (Speed of Sound Thrillers #1)(85)
“Nope.”
“Have you asked him anything yet?”
“Nope.”
“How long do you plan on keeping him here?”
“As long as you’ll let me.”
“We’ve looked into the man’s records. He’s a big-shot doctor with big-shot connections and the federal government behind him. The moment you ask him a question he doesn’t want to answer, he’ll get lawyered up and be released. You’ll never get anywhere near this man again.”
Butler nodded. “I know.”
Daniels shook her head. “So what the hell are you doing?”
“Enjoying the moment. The shitbag is guilty. I confirmed it the moment he agreed to come here. But I couldn’t exactly stop and say, ‘Well, thanks for your confession. I know there’s nothing I can do about it, so I might as well turn around and take you back home.’”
“No, but you might as well say it now. I’ll make arrangements for someone to take him.”
As Butler got up to begin his interrogation of Fenton, he noticed Daniels removing something from her pocket, but paid little attention to it.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, sitting down across from the doctor.
Marcus clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “No you’re not.”
Butler nodded. “I was trying to be polite.”
“It doesn’t suit you.”
The detective looked him squarely in the eyes. “Would you like to make a confession?”
“Are you a priest?”
“Do I look like a priest?”
“If you’re not a priest, I have nothing to confess.”
Before Butler could respond, static came over the dusty intercom speaker at the top of the two-way mirror, close to the ceiling. The next sound to come through the intercom was the voice of Michael Barnes: “You sure about this?”
Fenton looked puzzled, but Butler recognized the acoustic reconstruction instantly. He’d heard it twice already. The detective turned back toward the mirror and glanced where he knew Victoria was standing. This was one of those rare moments when someone does exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. He nodded with heartfelt gratitude.
The detective lieutenant held Deputy Inspector Nataro’s pocket recorder next to the intercom microphone as the reconstructed conversation continued to play.
FENTON: Yes, I’m sure. Skylar is too valuable. She’s already made more progress with Eddie in days than the others made in years.
Marcus Fenton’s face tightened as he now recognized the conversation.
BARNES: Will you want to know the details?
FENTON: Nothing in his residence. Make it look like an accident.
BARNES: He takes the subway.
The click of the “Off” button could be heard over the intercom as Victoria stopped the playback. She stood so close to the two-way mirror, watching Fenton, that her breath steamed the glass.
Butler studied the doctor across the table, enjoying every second. If the NYPD ever made a Mastercard commercial, this was a moment that could fairly be described as priceless.
“I want to speak to my lawyer.” Fenton’s voice quivered. He was clearly rattled.
“I figured as much.” Butler stood up from the table. “You’re free to go. Transportation will be arranged for you.”
Surprised, the senior doctor immediately got to his feet and moved toward the door. He paused. “You’ll never be able to use it, you know.”
“We just did.”
Fenton steamed. “In a court of law.”
“That may be. But now you know we know. And you will never be able to forget it.” He held the door open for Fenton as the doctor stormed out of the room.
CHAPTER 87
New York Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 28, 12:07 a.m.
Max Garber had followed Agent Raines’s instructions to the letter, focusing his analysts’ efforts on the area’s five major train stations: Penn, Grand Central, Hoboken, Newark, and Secaucus Junction. All were reachable by subway. Penn and Grand Central were the obvious choices, but for that reason alone, Garber knew not to overlook the other three. The two fugitives had managed surprisingly well thus far to elude capture, and while part of their success could be attributed to luck, not all of it could. The doctor and patient were making smart choices. And the smart choice in this instance would be to avoid the two most obvious ones.
Garber split up his analysts into five equal teams, each assigned to one of the stations. They played catch up, reviewing surveillance footage from the last two hours—a guesstimate as to the earliest time the doctor and patient could have reached one of the train stations—to the present. Making full use of Homeland’s facial-recognition system, they methodically studied every train passenger’s face they could. Anyone with a rating of 70 percent or higher received closer, human inspection. It was this small percentage of “possibles” that required the analysts’ complete attention. And was why most of them were looking bleary eyed and chugging as many Red Bull and Rockstar and 5-Hour Energy drinks as they could get their hands on.
In each of the train stations, a majority of travelers wore either Yankees or Mets paraphernalia. This was, after all, baseball season. And the Mets were playing their National League East rivals the following afternoon. Whether going to the game or not, every legitimate fan was required to wear their colors. And in New York, the Yankees and Mets had a lot of fans. Max Garber was a fan of the latter. Later, if he wasn’t in the office, he’d be watching the game. If he was still in the office, which was looking increasingly likely, he’d sneak glimpses of the game on his phone.